The Taming of the Shrew
by Lakritzwolf
Summary: Butch works as a boywhore in Rivet City. Flak and Shrapnel decide to utilize his service. Rough Sex without lube ensues.


Written for the Fallout Kink Meme: The original prompt was Butch the boywhore/Any male, but when someone re-prompted it with Butch the boywhote/Flak/Shrapnel I was hooked.  
_Butch works as a boywhore in Rivet City. Flak and Shrapnel decide to utilize his service. Rough Sex without lube ensues._

* * *

This wasn't what Butch had imagined his life to be, and occasionally, he cursed himself for an idiot. Or worse. When he was sober enough to care.

He had thought he could handle himself. He had believed himself to be capable of dealing with everything. And then, after that night he had managed to slip out of the Vault, his life had changed more dramatically than he could ever have imagined. A little, dark, piercing, nagging thought, a thought he aimed to numb and shut up with alcohol whenever he could, told him he should have listened to Jake and stayed.

Or maybe he should have asked Jake a little more about the outside world before falling into it like a bird out of a nest. Because Butch, in his firm believe of being capable of handling everything, had forgotten a simple, yet significant detail: Outside the Vault, there were no food dispensers. No one provided for anyone but themselves. And here he was now, stranded in Rivet City, alone, broke and hungry.

Scavenging through the ruins of D.C had almost gotten him killed, and Butch had had to admit that he needed more combat experience other than small skirmishes in bars with his knife. He had no resources for the right equipment, though.

Upon asking Harkness for a position as security guard, the chief had seized him up, then laughed, and told him to come back when he had a few more hairs on his chest.  
The Rudder already had a bouncer, and Butch knew better than to ask Belle for the job. Brock outweighed him by forty pounds, topped him by almost five inches and had fists like hams.  
And doing people's hair didn't pay well, and most of these stupid outside creeps rather seemed to want to run around looking like an old privy carpet than paying someone to make them look presentable.

The first time Butch had sold his ass had been sheer desperation fuelled by a gnawing hunger so intense he couldn't have imagined it. In the Vault, no one ever had to go hungry. But somehow, it hadn't been as bad as he had imagined it to be, and the money had fed him for a few days, and despite having drunk himself into a stupor after that, he had tried it again.

After some time, the whole thing had turned into business. He did people's hair, and for an additional charge, took care of other body parts, too. He kept himself clean and groomed, having quickly discovered that a clean ass paid better, and kept out of Jake's way whenever he happened to be in Rivet City. Butch had no idea if he had heard gossip about him, and had no intention to find out, to face him and steer around awkward conversation topics like: Whatcha doing with yourself out here? It would be a little hard to swallow for anyone to face a person you had bullied into snot and tears for the whole of your collective childhood to tell him you turned into a boywhore and lived on selling your ass.

Butch had found himself a small, empty cabin on the lower deck, cleared out the debris and the rubbish, found himself a chair, a table and a mattress, and knew this was a good as it could get. He got by, and maybe at one point he could begin to set something aside to get out of here again. Buy a proper gun, a set of armour, and what then, fuck knows.

He was, in fact, just daydreaming of slicing up a mutant's face one morning when approaching steps told him he was about to have a customer. No one found his way in that corner of the lower deck accidentally, especially not at this time of day, just after breakfast time.

He smelled smoke, and when Butch looked up, he found one of the ship's weapons dealers lean against the doorframe, smoke clamped loosely between his lips. Butch admired them, those two guys were first-class badass material, and he secretly wished he could be more like them. If rumours were true one of them had been a slaver and the other, the one who was staring down at him now, even a raider. A fucking Wasteland raider. How he had come to be here and into that position no one knew, and Butch knew he would never have the balls to ask, because chances were, he wouldn't have any balls left after the attempt.

"How much for a haircut?", Shrapnel asked him.  
Butch got up and tugged his jacket into place. "Depends. Thirty to fifty." He eyed the former raider up, his hair was a hopeless, shaggy mess, but thick and healthy. Good material to work with.  
"No fancy shit, kid. Just get it out of my eyes and keep it simple."  
"Sit down, dude, and I'll take care of it."

Butch had to admit, he was tempted to get a little fancy with that hair, but he didn't fancy having his teeth knocked out. So he trimmed it out of Shrapnel's eyes, took something off at the sides and discovered that his right ear looked as if someone had tried to cut it off with a blunt knife and someone else had tried to stick it back on with a piece of band-aid.  
"What happened to your ear?", he asked, fascinated despite himself.  
"None of your fucking business. You done yet?"  
"See for yourself." Butch swallowed a snarky remark that would've likely earned him a black eye and held up a mirror. "That what you had in mind?" It was, in fact, so simple and crude it was against all his professional pride, but when Shrapnel nodded, seemingly satisfied, Butch felt somewhat relieved.  
"Thanks, kid. What do I owe you?"  
"Thirty. I was only at it for barely five minutes."

Shrapnel got out of the chair, brushed a few stray hairs from his arms and shoulders and counted thirty caps onto the table. Lighting up another smoke, he seized Butch up and narrowed his eyes. Butch felt, to his irritation, like something exposed from under a rock.

"Say", Shrapnel asked after taking a drag of his smoke. "What do you charge for an hour?"  
Butch didn't have to ask what he meant. "I don't charge by hour, I charge by business. Hand job is fifty, a fuck is a hundred, and a blow job is a hundred and twenty."  
"Don't like blow jobs, huh?"  
Butch shrugged. "It's hard earned money."  
"I guess so. But a man's gotta eat, huh?" Shrapnel chuckled out a cloud of smoke. "How much to hire you for the night?"  
"I just said..."  
"I know what you just said. But do we have to make a shopping list or do you charge a lump-price?"  
"Depends", Butch gave back testily. "And I only work for payment up-front."  
"Don't worry, kid. We don't cheat someone out of their money. We're assholes, but we're honest assholes, at least. See you tonight, kid. Our cabin is just around the corner from the clinic."  
"What time?"  
"Make it nine. We gotta close down the stall and have dinner, then we usually take a drink in the Rudder. Deal?"  
"Deal", Butch replied, but only after Shrapnel had gone did he realise what the raider-turned-merchant had said, stumbling over a tiny, little word.

_We?_

**x-x-x-x-x**

Eight thirty.

Butch had checked his Pip Boy ten times already since he had finished his shower, wondering briefly how the fuck people measured time on this hulk of a ship without sunlight or watches anyway. How would they even know if it was nine or not?  
Not that he planned on taking a chance with those guys, though.

He stared critically at the mirror and his own reflection, frowning at his own appearance. But experience had taught him that a mixture of spunk and pomade was one hell of a mess to get rid of again, so he left the pomade and did what he could with water and his comb. It wasn't the same, but he doubted any of the two would be interested in his hair.

Butch left his cabin, ran a hand through his hair, tweaking the forelock in a practised move, yet without any aid it didn't stay properly where it was, hanging teasingly over one eye. With a shrug, Butch hopped up the stairwell and headed for the clinic. Just around the corner left only one option.

Eight fifty-eight.

There was a door, and Butch took a deep breath, smoothed down his jacket, ran his hand through his hair again and, after making sure no one saw him – he had learned from experience, too, and not a pleasant one, that discretion was vital if he didn't want to lose customers and/or his teeth – he knocked.

The door opened and a hand shot out and dragged him in. When it slammed shut behind him, Butch had a second to look around, discovering to his mild disappointment that the cabin looked pretty much like any other on the ship he had seen from the inside. For some reason he had expected something more... roughed up, maybe? Ashtrays that spilled over, plates with leftovers, empty bottles, dirty clothing strewn around... none of that was the case.

The hand that had dragged him in now took his shoulder and Butch turned to look at Shrapnel. "Anyone seen you coming in?"  
"No. I'm not doing this for the first time, man."  
"Good." The former raider seemed honestly pleased. "Just making sure. We got a reputation to lose."  
Butch said nothing, but noticed that Flak, sitting behind Shrapnel on the cot, shook his head while taking a drag of his smoke.

Shrapnel held out a pack of cigarettes to Butch. "Want a smoke?"  
"Sure." Butch took one, let Shrapnel light it up and cast another cautious look around.  
Flak noticed his look and stood up, offering him a flask of whiskey. "Drink?"  
"What is this, a party?"  
Shrapnel paused, smoke half-way to his lips. "You in a hurry to get the job done, huh?"  
Butch swallowed a snarky remark because he sure as fuck could use those caps and shrugged.

They smoked a few moments in awkward silence.

Finally Shrapnel clamped the smoke in the corner of his mouth and held out a hand to Flak who took it and let himself be helped up.  
"Told you this wasn't a good idea", Flak said.  
"Why?"  
"Why." Flak exhaled a heavy cloud. "He doesn't know fuck what to do."  
"What?" Arms akimbo, Butch almost lost the smoke. "I've been doing this for..."  
"What do I care?" Flak narrowed his eyes. "You're as green as a molerat pub."  
"Fine. If that's how it is..." Butch dropped his arms and made for the door. "I could've had two other appointments, and this is what I get? Fuck."  
"Get out of here, munchkin."  
"Should've known I'd better find something else than a couple of old queens", Butch muttered on his way to the door.

He probably shouldn't have said that.

Within a split second, Shrapnel had him by the coattails and jerked him around. "What was that?" His voice was a low, dangerous hiss.  
"I..." Butch tried to think of a snarky remark, but without warning, Shrapnel buried his fist into Butch's abdomen and he doubled over with a groan.  
"You little fuckwit." Shrapnel still had the smoke clamped in the corner of his mouth, his facial expression bordering on rather bored. It was only his voice that was flat with fury. Before Butch could retaliate Shrapnel had gotten a good grip on his hair and jerked. Brought off balance Butch lost his footing and slammed into the ground. For a few seconds, he saw stars.

As Butch was just about to sit up again and frantically tried to think of something reconciliatory to say someone else stepped behind him. Flak got a good grip of his hair as well now and dragged him onto his feet again. Stumbling and bent in an awkward angle due to Flak's grip, Butch fought for his balance. "Hey now..."  
"Shut the fuck up, you disgusting little runt." Shrapnel undid the buckle of Butch's belt while Flak, without losing either his grip or the smoke between his lips, managed to get Butch's jacket off his shoulders. He didn't lose any time in fineries when it came to his shirt, though. With one hand he just tore the thing apart. The shirt was practically new; neither worn nor threadbare, and the implication of this, what it told him about the strength of Flak's hands and arms, made Butch suddenly slightly afraid. "Jesus, will you..."  
"I told you to shut up", Shrapnel hissed and planted his fist into Butch's face.  
Butch felt his lip split and fought back for a second, but Flak let go of his hair and twisted his left arm onto his back. With one swift move, the former slaver slipped his left arm under Butch's and closed his fingers around Butch's right shoulders. And Butch had to discover to his dismay that there was no escaping that grip. There were obviously a few things you learned as a slaver.

Having succeeded with his belt Shrapnel unceremoniously tore down Butch's pants, and Flak finally let go of his arm, only to give him a rough push. Due to the fact his pants pooled around his ankles, Butch lost his balance again and landed on his hands and knees, but this was quite obviously just where the two wanted him.  
Butch fought for breath a couple of seconds, his hair hanging messed up and tousled into his face and blood dripping down his chin, and had just time to look up when Shrapnel knelt down in front of him, fly undone, before the former raider shoved a dick the size of a police baton, by the feel of it, into Butch's open mouth in mid-gasp.

Shrapnel buried his hand into Butch's hair again. Fuck, those guys really seemed to have an issue with that. "Good thing you left the snot outta your hair, kid", Shrapnel snarled, breathing heavily. "Some people like a good grip, you know. That's why I didn't want you to cut my hair any shorter." He emitted a dirty chuckle and looked up at Flak who had just undone his pants and now knelt between Butch's legs.

Their eyes met over Butch's half-naked back where the tattered remains of his shirt still hung down left and right and when Butch dared to shoot a glance at Shrapnel's face he realised the former raider was looking at his partner under lowered eyelids. Behind him, he could feel Flak close both hands around his buttocks in a surprisingly gentle move.  
"You were right, buddy", Flak said hoarsely. "He's got one damn fine piece of ass."  
Shrapnel chuckled raggedly. "You said that to me first time you fucked me."  
Now Flak chuckled as well. "That's gotta be more than a decade ago and you still remember what I said?"

Not daring to make a move Butch was forced to remain as he was, breathing deeply through his nose around the sizeable dick in his mouth. He could hear the rustle of clothes behind him and finally, Shrapnel released his hair, only to undo the buttons of his vest, though. He shed it and got rid of his shirt as well, not taking his eyes off Flak, before digging his hand into Butch's hair again.  
"Come one, kid", he rasped. "Do your job."  
So Butch curled his tongue around Shrapnel's dick and began to suck, feeling Flak behind him run a finger over the crack of his ass. Butch would have liked to tell him he had a bottle of lube in his jacket, but there was no getting Shrapnel's dick out of his mouth. A spittle-slicked finger dug into his asshole.

"I'd relax if I was you, kid", Shrapnel whispered raggedly. "I keep calling my buddy's dick 'The Fat Man', you know. He can make you explode." His expression and his voice turned a little dreamy as he looked down, and for a split-second, Butch was suddenly afraid of him. His lip was still bleeding and when he squinted down his nose he could see that the former raider's dick was already smeared in blood, and when he noticed the look in Shrapnel's eyes he could suddenly see him, the raider, the crazed bloodlust fuelled by drugs and madness, and was sure that he wouldn't get out of here alive.

Butch closed his eyes again, intent on getting these guys off as soon as possible to get out of here again, but even as he tried to relax, Flak's dick was almost more than his practically dry asshole could handle. He would've screamed if he hadn't had his mouth full. As it was, it was only a hoarse, suffocated moan that escaped him and with a crack, Flak's hand connected with his backside. "Shut the fuck up, kid, and do your job."

Both men began to move then, and Butch closed his eyes, focussing only on breathing. His ass hurt like fire, his buttocks stung, his split lip was throbbing with pain and he was constantly on the verge of suffocating when the men inside him moved, harder, faster, and more erratic. Both were breathing hard and fast, and as Shrapnel now buried both hands into Butch's hair Flak dug his fingers into Butch's buttocks. It was all Butch could do to suppress the urge to retch and thrust up his ass.

It seemed like a small eternity before Flak finally picked up speed again and with a few last, deep thrusts that felt as if he meant to split Butch along the spine, spent himself into Butch's ass with a hoarse bellow.  
Moments later, Shrapnel came, too, filling Butch's mouth with a load of hot and salty liquid that he was unable to handle in full.

After a few moments of heavy breathing, Flak was the first to withdraw, but at least he was cautious about it on the way out. Butch sagged, and when Shrapnel now finally pulled his dick out, Butch couldn't suppress a single retch, a disgusting mixture of snot, blood and spunk dripping down his chin.

Butch remained where he was, trying to get his bearings back, trying not to hurl the contents of his stomach onto the floor before him, trying not to collapse and bawl like a little girl because it hurt so fucking much. He was sure he'd be bleeding out of his ass for a couple of days at least.

When he finally dared to look up he found the two men look down at him with a mildly amused expression while passing a flask of whiskey back and forth. Butch had a few moments to notice the difference between them: Flak was broad shouldered and heavily muscled, while Shrapnel was on the wiry side, his body covered in all kinds of scars that looked as if none of those wounds had ever received proper medical attention.

To his surprise, Flak suddenly extended a hand to him. Butch hesitated for a second, then took the hand and let Flak help him up. After laboriously pulling up his pants, he wiped the back of his hand across lips and nose and accepted the bottle Shrapnel wordlessly offered to him, rinsing his mouth of blood and spunk with a healthy swig of the burning, amber liquid.

"Just a couple of old queens, huh?", Flak said after a moment, a audible trace of humour in his voice.  
Butch shrugged and took another sip of whiskey before handing the bottle back.  
"So what do we owe after that little bit of sports?" Shrapnel looked disgustingly pleased with himself, too.  
"Four hundred caps and both your balls on a string to hang up on my wall", Butch gave back testily.  
Both men laughed coarsely and Shrapnel went over to a locker where he picked up a large bag.  
"Here. It's six hundred. About the balls, though..."  
"You can always try to take'em", Flak chuckled and lit himself a smoke.  
Butch swallowed a remark that probably would've earned him a broken nose and grabbed the bag from Shrapnel. "Thanks."

Then he picked up his jacket and slipped it on, but as he was about to leave, he heard Flak call out behind him. He was tempted to just go, but that would've been childish, so he slowly turned around again. "Yeah?"  
"You ever want a gun, we could work out a deal for you. Just keep your mouth shut about it."  
"Got ya. Thanks."

He left, his last sight of them, to his surprise, was them closing their arms around each other. He closed the door in haste, not wanting to see any more. Surely men like them didn't kiss?  
It wasn't his business anyway, but as he looked at the bag in his hand he realised that he finally had made it: with that many caps and the offer of a discount, he would finally be able to buy himself the gear he needed. He could get out of this shithole again.

Butch made his way back to his cabin whistling under his breath, for the first time since he had left the Vault things looked good for him again. Just around the corner from his cabin he ran into a guy he knew faintly, and when he noticed the state of Butch's wardrobe, he snickered. "The fuck happened to you, Butch?"  
"None of your fucking business."  
"Of course not." Another coarse chuckle. "Fucking's your business, not mine."  
Butch acted without thinking. His fist landed right in the bastard's face and sent him sprawling on his ass. And god almighty, that felt good. "Not anymore, asshole."

He slammed the door of his cabin shut behind him, grinning to himself while sucking at his bruised knuckles.

Life was good.


End file.
